


Cold

by OpensUp4Nobody



Series: Odd Unrelated Mini-fics [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, M/M, One Shot, lowkey dystopia that is, with a bit of surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 07:49:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17824784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpensUp4Nobody/pseuds/OpensUp4Nobody
Summary: Enjolras finds Grantaire laying on a bench in the snow and takes him home.





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to shitpostingfromthebarricade for being a lovely beta!!

Snow is falling across the lake. It hasn't been cold long enough to turn the surface to ice, and the tiny white flakes are licked from the air by the dark waters. Across the waves, city lights cast a wavering shimmer of yellow-white on inky black. The sun is setting behind the clouds, but it's not yet twilight. A few stray citizens mark the empty streets, most are already in their homes. The curfew draws nearer with every agonizing breath.

Grantaire knows these things, though he does not observe them. His head is tipped back against the hard rubber coating of a park bench. He is the only person left on the snow dusted boardwalk. He can hear only the lapping of waves against cement, a distant white noise, as he stares up at the distant white sky and blinks the snow away as it catches in his lashes. He doesn't know how long he's been laying there, enough time to have gained his own snowy coating. He is very cold.

He can't seem to move, not that he's putting much effort into it. The weight of the atmosphere has become something tangible, an invisible heaviness holding him down and crushing him to the bench, forcing him to observe this snow shower. The sky is falling, it melts against his skin.

If he doesn't get up soon the street cleaners will find him and carry him off to a holding cell where he will await whatever punishment is awarded repeat offenders of curfew breaking. He's on his last warning. He's never seen what happens when you run out of chances. The weather is ominous enough that it would be a fitting evening to find out.

"Grantaire?" The gloom is sliced clean open with the sound of an angel's voice.  Grantaire recognizes it, he would recognize it anywhere. The rush of the waves fall away as Enjolras absorbs every last drop of his focus.

"Good evening, Apollo," he forces the words past his frozen lips without turning his head. "What brings you to this long stretch of pavement?"  His voice is rough. Too rough, like he's screamed himself hoarse. Maybe he has.

"I was on my way home." Enjolras' face tilts forward into view, appearing upside-down from where Grantaire lies. He carries a black umbrella in his gloved hand and wears a dark coat buttoned up under a worn red scarf. His hair is tangled from the wind, and his nose and cheeks are flushed from the cold. His gaze is intense—cutting. It pierces through Grantaire’s chest and makes his heart bleed. He can feel the blood pouring into his lungs, his breath stutters but Enjolras keeps talking—oblivious or perhaps uncaring. "What are you doing?" he asks.

What is he doing? Grantaire opens his mouth, and the words come from some part of him that must know. "Well," he drawls, like he's pleased to have the attention when he really wishes Enjolras was somewhere warm and happy and far away. Not standing with him in the cold. "I was laying here with my mouth open, making a valiant effort to drown myself when the rain turned to snow. So now I am trying to see if my hair will freeze to this bench."

Enjolras' expression wavers, attempting to deconstruct his words for the truth that may or may not be there. "Why?" he asks after a moment of careful consideration.

"It's called flexibility, my dear. I'm adapting to the situation. If the rain has failed to damn me, I turn my intent to the snow."

"I meant, why were you laying on this bench trying to drown yourself in the first place."

"Oh." Why indeed? The details are fuzzy. "Too lazy to find a puddle I suppose. But you're right to wonder, I haven’t had much luck."

"You're only about a yard away from the lake," he says, his head turns to observe the water before his eyes return to Grantaire.

"Too easy." He hopes he's grinning. He felt his mouth move but doesn't know what shape it's taken. "I like a challenge."

"Should I be worried?" The blond is frowning. That's not so unusual. Enjolras is usually frowning. Or shouting. But shouting now would draw unwanted attention from nonexistent eyes. The street cleaners would love to get their hands on a rabble rouser like Enjolras.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, E, I’m only being dramatic."

Enjolras is unconvinced. "I'm going to be worried anyway."

"You never listen to me," Grantaire sighs. The pause following his words extends and an eternity passes in the breath of a second as neither of them speak. "Sorry," Grantaire murmurs to smother the quiet.

"Don't apologize. Can I sit with you?"

He shrugs and allows Enjolras to nudge him upright. He is a little disappointed that his hair doesn’t cling to the bench. Now vertical, Grantaire can see that the snow has stopped falling. It's hovering in the air. When had it stopped? Enjolras doesn't seem to have noticed that time around them is suspended, so Grantaire doesn't mention it.

"You should be getting off the streets." Grantaire tells him. "They won’t let you off with a warning if you're out past curfew."

"We have some time," Enjolras says, vapor trails from the corner of his mouth.

"You never have time for anything."

"Well, I'm making time." His jaw is set such that there will be no deterring him.

"So contrary," Grantaire huffs as a memory bubbles to the forefront of his mind. He glances at Enjolras’ face and cannot look away. Sometimes the blond is painful to look at. He’s impossible in all conceivable ways. "Did you know you were in my dream last night?"

Enjolras raises a perfect eyebrow. "How could I have possibly known that?"

"Sometimes you don't seem quite human. I don't presume to know the extent of your knowledge."

"I promise I am not psychically notified when you dream about me."

"Thank fuck for that," he laughs. Enjolras finds his way into most of Grantaire's dreams in one form or another. He’s not always the focus, often he’s just there, like that’s where he’s supposed to be.

“Do you dream of me often?”

“All the time.” His tone is teasing, intentionally exaggerated. 

Enjolras' expression has turned suspicious. "Now I'm worried what you dream about."

"Well last night we were in a little seaside town on the edge of a cliff. You wanted to look over the edge, but the wind was too strong. I kept telling you not to go out, but you did anyway, and you were blown right over the side."

"Did I die?" He seems more curious than alarmed at the idea that Grantaire dreams of him dying.

"No, a helicopter rose from the water and you were airlifted out, but I lost my phone so I couldn't call to see if you were okay, and you had my keys. I had to try to make my way to the hospital on foot. I found a door in town that opened up to a big city, the rest was me trying to find my way to you."

"That sounds stressful."

"It worries me more now that I'm awake. I have an unearthly calm in my dreams."

"What do you mean?"

He hums, "I have a lot of dreams where terrible things happen. I usually end up getting shot and my response is always 'oh I'll just have Joly patch me up,' and I carry on like nothing's wrong."

"I never remember my dreams," Enjolras huffs.

"I remember all my dreams: I promise, you aren't missing much. Besides, you dream enough while you're awake."

"I'm not dreaming, I'm planning."

"You're plotting."

"That makes it sound sinister."

"You are trying to overthrow the government. That is rather sinister, if you ask me. And for the sake of clarity," he raises his voice, "to any covert agents who might be listening: I am joking."

Enjolras glances away, but there is no one to be seen. "I'm not being tracked," he says, suddenly quiet.

Maybe he's right, more likely he's wrong. "That's what they want you to think. If I were you, I'd check my flat for bugs."

Enjolras considers it and nods. "Would you like to join me?"

"And what, de-bug your flat? I’d imagine Combeferre would be more useful for that. I'm afraid you'll find I am rather technology deficient."

"I mean, would you like to come home with me? I have soup. You could have some if you want."

Grantaire blinks. In the distance he can hear a siren. They shouldn't be out on the street any longer. But he's more concerned with what Enjolras has just said. "You want me to go home with you?"

"Yes." Enjolras nods as though this is perfectly reasonable.

"Why?" Grantaire has never been invited to Enjolras' flat. They live on opposite sides of the city. They only see each other at underground meetings, and even then Enjolras can never seem to stand him.

Maybe something's changed. There's a hole in his memory: he can't even remember what he's forgotten, and he can't remember why he came to sit on this bench.

"I'm not going to abandon you here for the street cleaners to take care of." Enjolras almost smiles, and there's something soft in his expression. Grantaire can’t recall that sort of softness ever being directed toward him. It takes all of his concentration to keep his mind within his body, it wants to float away. 

"That implies I wasn't intending to leave before you got here."

"Weren't you?"

He is quiet for a moment. "Did you make the soup?" 

"I wouldn't have sat here in the cold if I wanted to poison you." The blond rolls his eyes. "Courfeyrac made it."

"And you wouldn't mind?"

"No."

"Okay then." he stands, muscles stiff. His clothes are soaked through and cling to his body which is entirely too heavy. He’s afraid he’ll fall through the earth, that the bench was the only thing keeping him surfaced. He can’t remember how long he's been there. He stands anyway, following Enjolras’s footsteps. When he looks back over his shoulder, the snow is trampled and dark with sludge. He turns away.

The walk to Enjolras’ flat is traversed in two blinks. They have to duck their heads down against the wind; it cuts Grantaire’s cheeks and screams in his ears. His foot catches on something, and he falls. When he expects the cold concrete, he opens his eyes to find they're on Enjolras' doorstep.

Standing across the threshold and bathed in artificial light, Enjolras squints at him. Grantaire is unsure how to behave. Icy fingers reach out and tilt Grantaire's chin upward, watching closely, touching gently.

"Your eyes are red," Enjolras observes. He seems concerned, eyebrows pulled together in something near a scowl but his eyes are too warm.

"Allergies."

"In the middle of winter?"

"I'm allergic to snow."

He doesn't actually know why his eyes are red. He might have been crying. Maybe on the way over. Maybe on the bench. Maybe sometime before that. He doesn't recall, and he doesn't try to remember.

"Go take a shower." Enjolras releases his chin and steps back, removing his scarf. "I'll leave some clothes in front of the door.

Grantaire suddenly remembers that he's soaked through. "Your clothes won't fit me," he points out. Enjolras is too thin and tall, and Grantaire is too short and stocky.

"I'm sure I have something."

"Okay." Grantaire stares down at his boots, which he has yet to remove. The melted snow has gone solid in a puddle around him, he can't lift his feet. He can feel Enjolras staring at him.

"Grantaire?"

"Yes?" He doesn't look up. If he looks away he might fall through the ice.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm testing my ability to telekinetically unlace my boots."

"You don't tie your boots. You keep them loose so you can slip them on and off."

"So I do." He nods. He doesn't know how Enjolras knows that. He forces his knee upward, pulling one boot free and slipping out of the other. Water soaks into his socks, the only part of him that had remained dry.

Enjolras is still watching as Grantaire looks up. He reaches out an arm and guides Grantaire to his shower. "Call if you need anything," he says. His hand warm against Grantaire's soaked shirt.

Grantaire nods, and Enjolras disappears behind a closed door leaving him alone in a vast and empty universe.

He turns on the water. The tap says it's turned to hot but it feels like pain. He can't hear above the static of the water. He presses his eyes shut so tightly he sees colors, and when he opens them again he's sitting in Enjolras' kitchen. He's wearing a red sweater that's a little too tight and sweatpants that are much too long. He doesn't remember how he got there. He reaches up and his hair isn't wet. His fingers still feel numb.

"Here you are." Enjolras is handing him a steaming bowl of soup. Had he been there a second ago? Grantaire hadn't noticed.

"Bless you, mighty soup angel." He accepts the bowl, which burns like fire in his hands.

The soup is filled with vegetables and broth. Grantaire lifts a spoonful to his mouth, but Enjolras grabs his wrist. He can't feel it through the fabric.

"You're going to burn your tongue," Enjolras warns.

"Good." He takes the spoonful anyway. He can feel his tongue burning but it doesn't really hurt, the sensation is far away. He chews, and it's like eating soggy cardboard. He wants to gag. Instead he scoops another spoonful, and again Enjolras stops him.

"Grantaire..." he says and there's something tangible in what he's not saying. It's heavy and real and Grantaire can't look at him, the room is starting to blur. It’s Enjolras’ fault, he’s too fucking bright.

"Sorry," he forces a laugh devoid of emotion. "I'm really tired. I could sleep for a million years."

"That's a dangerous game." Enjolras hasn't released his arm. "What if you woke up alone in a post-apocalyptic hellscape?"

"Prince Charming couldn't kiss me awake if everyone was dead."

"True enough. You can sleep on my couch if you’d like. It's long past curfew now."

Is it? How long was he in the shower? "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

He stands. His legs are shaky, and he allows himself to be led to the living room, throwing himself onto the couch. Enjolras vanishes and reappears with a blanket.

"Wake me up when you want to kick me out. I have a feeling I'll be out for a while."

"Should I wake you with a kiss?" Enjolras sits beside him on the edge of the couch.

Normally that would set his heart to racing but now his blood is slow and lazy. "Think you're my Prince Charming, do you?" he teases.

"I believe you've implied as much before."

"Ah, you do like to throw my own words back into my face."

Enjolras smiles, and there's something sad in his expression. Grantaire wants to crush the sadness out of existence. He reaches out to take Enjolras' hand, it's warm and soft.

"Your hands are still cold," Enjolras says.

Grantaire thinks he might have turned the shower water to cold and so was never warm. He isn't sure he says that but Enjolras looks worried, taking both hands in his and pressing them together to warm them. Grantaire is staring at their hands, seeing but not understanding.

After a moment Enjolras leans over to kiss his forehead. "Sleep." he instructs.

Grantaire blinks. "Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

"Is this... actually happening?"

"Yes." Enjolras sounds confident.

"Are you sure?" His vision is growing cloudy.

"I'm positive," Enjolras assures. "R, why are you crying?"

"I don't know." His chest is tight and he feels outside of control. "I think maybe this isn't real. And I don't know what that means."

"It's real. You're real. I'm real." Enjolras wipes his tears away.

"I don't think I believe you," he chokes around the lump in his throat.

"Just go to sleep. We can call Joly over in the morning."

"Okay,” he breathes, not reassured. “What should I dream about?"

"Something nice."

"Not something useful? You don't want any premonitions?"

"I did not know premonitions were within your power."

"I am a man of many talents."

Enjolras runs a hand through Grantaire's tangled hair, smoothing it back from his face. "Something useful and nice then."

"As you wish." He forces a smile that falls a mile short of anything. "Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

"Can you stay here? With me."

"Okay." Enjolras pushes him upright, lets Grantaire’s head rest in his lap. Grantaire can feel his body shivering but he can also feel Enjolras petting his hair and that is the sensation he clings to. 

"You know I love you, right?" He is suddenly desperate for Enjolras to understand. 

"Sh, I know.” He is unsurprised. Grantaire never imagined Enjolras cared enough to take notice. “We can talk in the morning," he soothes. 

"Okay. And you promise this is real?"

"What would you do if it wasn't?"

Grantaire is too far away to feel the jolt of alarm such a blunt question should brind. "I don't know,” he whispers.

"Then don’t worry about it. Go to sleep."

Unsettled but unfathomably  tired, Grantaire closes his eyes and doesn't dream of anything at all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I dont know what that was but it's too fucking cold outside.
> 
> I'm opens-up-4-nobody on tumblr if you want to say hi. 
> 
> Thanks


End file.
